Facing Up
by PrincessFi
Summary: A different take on Tony's father. Rated M for language.
1. Chapter 1

_All constructive feedback is welcome. Please feel free to comment if there is anything you think is out of character or not as well expressed as it might be. I don't promise to change it, but I might! And it will all make the story, and my next story, better. Thanks to Zan who took time out from her own writing to provide very insightful feedback which greatly improved the story. _

***********

**Facing Up**

It was early afternoon, and Gibbs was the only one in the bullpen when the call came in. Ziva and Tony were out interviewing a witness and McGee was down in the lab with Abby. When Gibbs heard who was asking for him he hesitated, but his curiosity got the better of him and for some reason his gut told him to go ahead.

After clearing the man through security, Gibbs showed him to the interview room. He made sure that the observation room was unmanned and the door locked. Whatever this was about, he did not want the conversation recorded or overheard.

He stared at the man opposite him. In his mid 60s, he was still a handsome man, impeccably dressed with his suit sitting perfectly across his broad shoulders. His nails, Gibbs noticed, were trimmed and clean. An expensive silver watch adorned one wrist, and he wore a heavy gold signet ring on his little finger. Gibbs noted that, although he exuded authority and confidence, one well-manicured finger drummed continuously on the table.

For a while he said nothing.

So Gibbs sat opposite Dominic DiNozzo, watching and waiting. The family resemblance to Tony was particularly noticeable in the man's thick wavy hair and tall solid build, but instead of Tony's clear green eyes, his father's were blue and bloodshot.

"Thank you for seeing me Agent Gibbs," Dominic said, his voice deeper than his son's and more gravelly, but with the same New England accent.

Gibbs just nodded.

"I am sure it's a line from a movie, but I suppose you are wondering why I am here." Despite the levity of the words, he did not smile.

Motionless, unblinking, Gibbs waited.

Dominic DiNozzo paused, and his finger stopped tapping. Leaning forward, he rested his hands flat on the table.

"I want to talk to my son, and I want you to convince him to listen to me."

Within half an hour, Gibbs had agreed to do just that.

*******

When Gibbs walked out to the bullpen he could hear Tony complaining good naturedly about a particularly spectacular piece of Ziva's driving, which he referred to as being like riding "Satan's rollercoaster of death".

Gibbs suppressed a smile and paused in the hallway, listening to his senior agent tease and goad Ziva until she finally snapped back, which is what he had always intended. He drew a deep breath, and prepared himself for the conversation to come.

"DiNozzo," he barked, stepping towards him and crooking his fingers.

Tony started in surprise, but quickly dropped his bag and bounced enthusiastically over to Gibbs. "Yeah, Boss?" he asked.

Gibbs knew that there was nothing that Tony liked better than to be singled out, to be chosen by the team leader, and he felt a bitter twist in his gut knowing that this time his senior agent was not going to like the reason why.

"David, McGee, I want your reports on my desk in an hour. DiNozzo, you're with me." The direction to the others was clear. Stay away.

Taking Tony's arm, Gibbs led him down the corridor towards the interview room.

"Tony," he said softly, "your father is here."

Tony's jaw dropped and Gibbs stepped in closer to him, keeping his grip on his arm, as if he feared he would turn and run. Tony's lips moved soundlessly for a moment before he articulated, "Why?"

"He wants to talk to you."

Tony spluttered and shook his head. "Well, I mean... about what, ... I don't..."

"Tony," Gibbs said softly. "Just take a breath for a second". Gibbs could feel the tension in Tony's arm, and see it in the corded muscles in his jaw and neck. But despite his anxiety, Tony instinctively obeyed Gibbs and drew a slow breath. And then another.

Finally his face relaxed, and he looked at Gibbs more calmly.

"Did he say what he wants?" he asked.

"Yes. He wants to talk to you." Gibbs paused. "And I think you should let him."

"I don't want to," Tony responded immediately. And I can't, he thought. I can't, I just can't. "I don't want to," he repeated, the words sounding to him juvenile and ridiculous, to Gibbs they just sounded desperate and afraid.

"Tony," Gibbs said quietly. "I think you should listen to him."

Tony's head snapped around and he stared at Gibbs, their faces inches apart. Gibbs saw pain in the younger man's eyes, and anger.

"I won't".

Gibbs removed his hand from Tony's arm and rested it instead on his shoulder, keeping their bodies close. "Just listen for a minute," he said softly. "Just listen to me." He could fell the rise and fall of Tony's breath beneath his hand. "I know what he did to you. You've told me some of it, and I've worked out the rest. But I've just spent half an hour with him, and I think you should listen to what he has to say."

Tony's brows came down as he stared at Gibbs. He licked his lips nervously. "Why?" he whispered.

Gibbs swallowed and shook his head. "I can't tell you that." Tony dropped his head, but Gibbs pressed on. "But, Tony," he stressed, "I won't let him hurt you. I would never tell you to go in there if I thought he would hurt you. I'll be with you. If you decide you want to leave, or if he goes off what he told me, then I'll stop him and you can leave." He fixed his gaze on the younger man. "I won't let him hurt you, Tony." Then he paused before playing his last card. He knew it was a cheap shot, his most manipulative move, but he was willing to play it. "Do you trust me, Tony?" he asked.

Tony exhaled noisily and turned his face away, closing his eyes. He knew he was being manipulated. He knew Gibbs was playing him. And now he was being pulled between his desire to please Gibbs and his need, his overwhelming instinctive need, to get away from his father. Gibbs hoped that he had given the young man enough reason to trust him. And he hoped to god that he wasn't making a mistake.

Finally Tony turned his face back and Gibbs was struck by his expression – resigned, accepting, and closed. He would do what Gibbs asked. He expected that it would cost him, and he was preparing to pay that cost.

"Trust me, Tony," Gibbs reassured, "it will be okay." Let it be okay, Gibbs thought. Please let it be okay.

Moving away, he opened the door of the interview room. Dominic DiNozzo was still seated at the table, his hands resting on his thighs. Gibbs entered the room and took the chair from the other side of the desk. He placed it near the wall to the left of the door, closer to the dark mirrored window that lead to the observation room.

Turning, he reached out his hand, and gently ushered Tony into the room.

As Gibbs expected, Tony stepped to his left and stood near the chair. Sliding it around, he placed it in front of him, between himself and his father. He gripped the back of the chair tightly.

Gibbs stepped into the room, and the noise of the door closing behind him seemed unnaturally loud.

Dominic DiNozzo had stood as Tony entered the room, and remained standing, simply looking at him.

"Anthony," he said softly.

Tony looked away, his face blank.

Gibbs took up position leaning against the closed door.

Dominic sat down. He cleared his throat.

"I've already told Agent Gibbs why I am here, and he agreed to let me talk to you."

Tony was looking to his left, at a point some feet from his father. He did not respond.

Dominic drew a slow breath. "Anthony, there are some things I need to say. Whether it's because I need to say them, or because I need you to hear them, I don't know. But I am going to say them anyway."

Resting his hands on the table, he interlaced his fingers and leaned slightly forward. "I am an alcoholic Anthony. I have been for nearly 40 years." He paused, but there was no reaction from his son.

"But I have been sober now for over two years."

At that Tony blinked, and his father paused again. His eyes flicked to Gibbs, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Dominic drew a breath before continuing. "I've been sober for two years," he repeated, "and I intend staying that way. In that time, I've done a lot of thinking. Do you know the worst part about being sober, Anthony?" His eyes flicked away from the younger man, into the darkness of the mirror hanging on the wall behind him. "It's that the things you want to remember, you've forgotten. And the things you'd rather forget, you remember. Sometimes very clearly. I remember..." He stopped, swallowed and looked down at his hands. "In the last few months I've been remembering a lot of things, and I've been trying to find a way to make sense of them, trying to find a way to live with them."

Tony's eyes flicked back towards his father, to Gibbs, and then back away. Gibbs could see the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching, and his knuckles whitening on the back of the chair.

"Anthony, I've come to tell you some things that you already know." His father raised his head and looked directly at him, steady and unblinking. "I was a shit of a father. At best, I neglected you. At worst, I abused and injured you. I was bad before your mother died, and I was worse after. I should have been arrested for what I did to you. Instead, I paid off or frightened away anyone who tried to stop me or help you." Despite the steadiness of his voice, Gibbs could see the tension in his shoulders and in his ramrod posture in the chair. He was confessing to something that shamed and appalled him, and had no expectation of being forgiven.

Tony kept his head turned away, but his hands shook slightly on the chair back, and his eyes flickered, as if he was looking for something that wasn't there.

Relentlessly, needing to finish what he had started, Dominic continued. "The worst memories for me are not what I did, but what I said. I said such terrible things to you. I called you a coward and a sissy. I told you that you were worthless. I told you I was ashamed of you. I told you not to cry, and when you tried not to, I hit you even harder to try and break you."

Gibbs swallowed. He had known what the elder DiNozzo was going to say, that he would be hearing a perpetrator confess his crimes to his victim, but now the words were being addressed to Tony, and the victim of the crimes was his agent, his friend. Gibbs felt a hand close around his throat, and it was all he could do not to go to Tony to comfort him, to support him, to protect him, to do something. But he remained still.

As he looked between them, both father and son closed their eyes and dropped their heads.

When he raised his head, Dominic DiNozzo continued. "And every word I said to you was a lie. You know that, don't you? You were such a tough, brave kid. I should have been proud of you, I should've. The things I said to you, they were just another way of hurting you. They were lies, and they were awful."

Now Dominic was leaning almost out of his seat, his hands extended on the table towards his son. "And it wasn't your fault what I did, Anthony, it was never your fault, no matter what I said. It was my fault, because there was something wrong with me, something that... " His voice cracked on the last words, and he stopped, and he raised a hand to cover his face.

He drew a deep, rattling breath. Wiping his hand over his face, he looked again at his son, and when he spoke again, his voice was steady.

"I can't fix what I did. I wish I could. I wish I could go back and have one day, just one day, when I could be a decent father to you. But I can't. Whatever pain I've caused you, whatever harm I've done, I can't undo it. I can only say I'm sorry. I don't ask you to forgive me, because I don't deserve it. But I wanted you to hear me say that I know what I did, and I know how wrong it was. It wasn't your fault. And I'm sorry."

There was silence. Tony was completely motionless, his eyes seemingly fixed on the far corner of the room, open and still. His mouth was pressed tightly closed, and the only movement was a muscle in his jaw twitching slightly. It was so unnatural, Gibbs thought, this stillness, so forced and strained, that it was like a scream.

Dominic DiNozzo drew a breath. His game face was back on, the face that Gibbs had seen when he first sat opposite him. And it was the same calm, closed, deflecting face that he often saw on his senior agent.

Slowly he stood. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. "I am going to be in DC for a week or so on business. I'm staying at the Hay-Adams." Where else? Gibbs thought irrelevantly. "And this," Dominic held up a business card, "is a cell phone number. I only use it for outgoing calls and the number is always blocked, so no-one else has it. Just you." He placed it carefully in the centre of the table, and slid it towards Tony. "If you have anything you want to say to me, hell if you just want to come over and hit me, you call that number. And I'll answer."

He waited, but Tony did not speak or turn his head. Dominic turned to look at Gibbs, who straightened up from where he was leaning against the door and stepped away to open it.

Dominic moved from behind the table, but in the doorway he paused, and looked at his son. Their two faces were reflected side by side in the mirror and as his father looked at him, Tony turned his head and returned his gaze, but did not speak. Dominic DiNozzo left the room.

Gibbs followed him, and took a few steps down the hallway to stop a passing agent. "Can you see him out?" he asked quietly, gesturing to the elder DiNozzo.

The agent nodded and as he passed him Dominic DiNozzo extended his hand. "Thank you, Agent Gibbs." Gibbs took it, and DiNozzo continued. "I just hope..." but whatever he hoped, he could not say it, and he dropped Gibbs' hand and walked away.

Gibbs paused for a few moments before re-entering the room. As he did so, he saw Tony release the chair and step back. Eyes closed, he slid slowly down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, his arms resting on his bent knees, his head bowed between them.

"Tony?" Gibbs asked quietly. He squatted down beside him and heard his knees creak and pop. "Tony?"

Tony slowly lifted his head and tipped it back until it thudded against the wall, but he kept his eyes closed. His face was blank and expressionless. "Tony? Are you okay?" Gibbs asked, becoming anxious. Maybe he had miscalculated, maybe he should never have let his father anywhere near Tony.

Tony's only response was a slight twitch that might have been an attempt to shrug his shoulders. Gibbs knees started to ache, but he did not want to stand or move away. So instead he sat on the floor beside and in front of his agent, mirroring his posture.

"Tony?" he pressed quietly, leaning forwards.

Tony sighed heavily. "Jesus, Boss, what do you want me to say?"

"Nothing if you don't want to," Gibbs said softly. "But I'm not leaving you alone unless I know you are okay."

"I'm okay," Tony protested. "I just need..." he hesitated. "I just need some time, you know, to think."

Gibbs nodded. He put his hand gently on Tony's forearm and squeezed. Finally Tony lowered his face and opened his eyes. Gibbs did not know if he had been expecting tears, but Tony's eyes were dry. Dry, Gibbs thought, and hollow. As he watched, Tony blinked slowly once, and when he opened his eyes any emotion was gone and the shutters were down.

"I'm fine, Boss," he insisted calmly.

Gibbs had his doubts. "Do you want to talk to Ducky?" he offered. He knew Tony had consulted the ME about personal problems in the past, and hoped he could offer more help to the young man than Gibbs felt he could at that moment.

Tony shook his head. "I think I just want to... think," he answered slowly. He paused. "I might get some fresh air, if that's okay."

A knot of anxiety twisted in Gibbs' gut and he frowned.

Tony gave a slight, tight smile. "Boss, I just want to sit in the park for a few minutes. I'll come back."

"You'd better," Gibbs retorted automatically, then he relented and nodded. "Okay, Tony, take your time."

Tony's eyes were distant, and he still wasn't moving. Gibbs did not know whether to stay or leave. He felt responsible. Hell, he was responsible. Then he became conscious of Tony's leg touching his, resting against him. So he remained sitting, allowing the contact to continue, not speaking.

Finally Tony cleared his throat and shuffled a little. Extending his legs, he moved to stand. Gibbs followed suit. A little self consciously, they each ran their hands over their clothes, straightening and dusting themselves down.

Tony drew a deep breath. Gibbs looked at him. His brow was still furrowed, and his eyes were downcast, but Gibbs knew that he couldn't ask again.

He turned and opened the door. "Take as long as you want, Tony. I'll call you on your cell if I need you."

Tony nodded, and Gibbs watched his retreating back as he walked down the corridor.

He returned to his desk, ignoring the inquiring glances from Ziva and McGee. Their reports, as he had asked, were waiting for him. He read them, but the facts did not register. It was a good thing that the reports were just "wrap ups", final statements needed to close out a file. They could wait till he was more focussed, when he had stopped replaying that conversation in his mind, when he wasn't looking at the lift every time it arrived.

About an hour later Tony returned, bearing coffees for the team. He did not comment as he delivered them, and McGee and Ziva got the hint and just said "thanks" and smiled. Gibbs looked at him a moment longer than usual, but Tony seemed, if not his usual self, at least reasonably composed. As Gibbs watched, Tony sat at his desk, pulled out his notebook and quickly began typing his report.

It had been a quiet day case-wise, and at about 6.00pm Gibbs was happy to tell McGee and Ziva to leave. Tony kept typing, but it wasn't long before he stood to hand his report to Gibbs.

Gibbs put the report in his in-tray without reading it. "You gonna be okay tonight, DiNozzo?" he asked quietly.

Tony was silent, so Gibbs looked up at him. After a moment, Tony gave a noncommittal shrug and went back to sit at his own desk. Gibbs immediately wheeled his own chair across the floor to sit opposite him.

"Tony?"

Tony sat silently for a moment, looking out through the window. Then he looked back at his boss. "I was sitting in the park for an hour, trying to work out what I was feeling, but I have no idea."

Gibbs wasn't even going to try to guess what Tony was feeling. Instead, he tried to reassure him. "Your father had a couple of years to work out what he was going to say. It'll take you longer than an hour to work out what it means."

Tony sighed heavily. "I know, but part of me wishes I didn't have to. Until this morning, I had it all sorted, you know? I knew what it meant, the stuff with my father. I understood it. It was dealt with. It was over," his voice was becoming harsh, almost angry, "but now everything is different." The rage dropped from his voice, and his shoulders slumped. "And now I have to work it out again."

Gibbs was silent. He was responsible for this. He had told Tony to listen to his father. He had to say something, but he couldn't get away with a glib response, or one if his famous "rules". He was no good at these conversations, or so most of his ex-wives had told him. He hadn't really cared that he was no good at them before, but he did now.

Fortunately, saying nothing proved to be the right answer after all, as Tony continued.

"I feel ... confused. Really confused. And kinda dizzy." Tony finally looked at Gibbs. "Like the world has tilted."

Gibbs swallowed. He knew that feeling. The moment when life pulled the rug out from under you, and all the pain you thought you had buried rose up and grabbed you by the throat.

"Things have changed," he said softly. "You need time to sort them out and get your balance back."

Tony nodded slowly. "Yeah." He sighed. "I think I need to not talk about it for a while."

Gibbs paused. That was his way of dealing with things, but was it really the best way? Had it worked for him, he thought ruefully, with his obsessive boat building and his failed relationships? If there was a "don't talk about it" school of therapy, he was hardly its success story.

He swallowed, and gave advice he knew he would never had the good sense to take himself. "Maybe you should talk to someone about it," he said quietly. "Not right now, but maybe later in the week, or on the weekend, when you've thought about it a bit."

Tony looked at him, questioning. He seemed as surprised as Gibbs by the suggestion. "Really?"

"Yeah Tony, really. Like I said, you could talk to Ducky." And then come over to my place, Gibbs thought, come over and sit on the steps of my basement, watch me work on the boat, eat pizza and talk to me.

Tony nodded. "Maybe." He stood slowly, and Gibbs stood with him. "But right now I'm okay. Really I am, Boss."

Christ, Gibbs thought, now he's reassuring me. How did that happen?

"And you were right," Tony continued, "You were right to tell me to listen to him. I don't know what it all means yet, but if I hadn't listened, I would always have wondered what he was going to say. But now I know the truth. That's got to be better, right?"

Gibbs looked at him. You had to give him that, he thought, Tony never hid from the truth. It was a lesson he had been taught when he was young, taught by alcoholic parents, by abuse, neglect and failure of the part of anyone who could have helped him. And having learned as a child that what could not be changed had to be faced, no matter how hard or painful, as a man he could look at the truth without blinking. Gibbs realised that Tony was right, and he would be okay.

"'Night Boss." Tony said, turning to leave.

"Wait, Tony," Gibbs said, grabbing his own bag from his desk. "I'm heading home too. I'll walk you to your car."

They got in the lift together, and rode down to the car park in silence. When the doors opened and they turned to go to their respective cars, Gibbs gave Tony a gentle pat on the back.

"See you tomorrow, DiNozzo."

"Yeah Boss, see you tomorrow."

FF_


	2. Chapter 2

Tony stood outside the hotel room door. He would knock soon, he told himself. He would.

He had finally phoned his father the day before. The conversation had been short and businesslike. Tony said he wished to speak to him. His father said that, by coincidence, he would be in DC the next day on business. Tony did believe in coincidences but when his father suggested that he meet Tony at the Hay Adams hotel, Tony agreed and nominated the time – 8.00am. He then rang Gibbs and told him he would late for work the next day. Gibbs did not ask any questions.

Hearing his father's voice on the phone had been hard enough for Tony. But now he stood outside the door of his father's hotel room, waiting. His mouth was dry, and his stomach tight with remembered fear. He was a child again, standing outside the door to his father's study, waiting to be summoned. Unconsciously, nervously, his hand went to his hip and he touched the butt of his gun. Then he brushed his fingers over his belt buckle with its concealed knife. He was armed. And he was a man, not a child. But he was very conscious that now, like then, he was alone.

He was not entirely sure what he had come to say, if anything at all. In the past week he had tried to compose a script for this conversation, but it was beyond his ability to imagine. Instead some instinct, some compulsion, had made him pick up the phone and there was no backing out now.

Finally, he raised his hand and knocked on the door. In his mind he heard his father's voice peremptorily commanding him to enter, but on this occasion there was no sound. Instead, the door opened, and his father stood looking at him.

Before he could control it, Tony leaned sharply back, and his hand went to his hip. He did not actually step away, but his body's flight response was unmistakable. His father took a slow step back, leaving the door open. Recalling Tony's behaviour from their first meeting at NCIS, Dominic DiNozzo walked across the room and stood on the other side of the coffee table, giving Tony plenty of distance between them.

Finally the younger man stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. His right hand hovered towards his hip, and then as if to stop the movement he rested his hand on the top of his thigh, his fingers twitching and tapping soundlessly.

Dominic waited for a moment before speaking. "Would you like to sit?" he offered.

"No thank you," Tony responded tersely.

Again Dominic waited. He was not a man accustomed to waiting, but he would wait this time. Since his son had phoned the day before he had been preparing himself, trying to anticipate what Tony might say and bracing himself to hear it. Most importantly he had reminded himself over and over what he was not going to do and what he was not going say. No excuse, no blaming anyone else, no criticism of his son's choices. He was determined that he would not drive Tony away; he could not afford to, because he may not have another chance.

And so he waited. Tony was staring to his right, as if the heavy velvet drapes covering the window warranted his undivided attention.

"I'm not sure why I'm here," he said abruptly. "I'm not sure you can to see me. I don't know what ... what you want from me."

That was not what his father had expected. "I don't want anything," he responded. "I didn't come to see you because I want anything. Is there something you want? "

"Well, I don't know that either." As he spoke Tony's eyes flicked back towards his father, looking for his response, bracing for it. Dominic was reminded of a man stepping out onto a frozen lake, poking, testing, knowing from terrifying experience that when the ice beneath him cracks, he will drop into freezing, fatal darkness. And bitterly he realised that, for Tony, he was that darkness.

He cleared his throat. "Are you on your way to work?" he asked softly, trying to prompt some sort of conversation, without appearing to interrogate.

Tony looked back at him, and eyes narrowed. "Yes," he said simply. "I've told them I'm going to be a little late today."

"You must like working there?" Dominic asked conversationally.

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, you've been there quite a few years now. Longer than any of your previous jobs."

"Researched me, did you?" The tone was belligerent, but unafraid.

"Of course," Dominic responded quickly. In the face of Tony's glare, he continued. "I meant no harm, Anthony. I was just trying to learn something about you."

"And did you?"

"No." He paused. "No, not really. But I did find out that you had been at NCIS for more than 5 years, so I assume you like it there. Do you?"

Tony looked sideways at his father. Dominic could read the suspicion in his face. Did his son really think he was asking so he could find some way to take NCIS away from him? Probably. And it was probably justifiable. Despairing, Dominic wondered if he could ever erase the fear that he inspired, the fear that every word passing between them was a trap or a weapon.

After consideration, Tony decided it was safe to answer. "Yes," he said quietly. "I like it there."

Dominic nodded. "Why?" he asked carefully.

Tony started at the question, as if he had never thought of it before. "Because of Gibbs," he said, as if the answer was self-evident. "I mean, I've always liked the investigative work, but the difference between NCIS and the police is ..... well, its Gibbs."

"He's a good Boss?"

"Yeah." Tony paused. "He's a great teacher. He's hard, and he never seems to teach, but you learn just by standing near him. And the rest of the team, they're all good people. And friends."

Dominic's lips twitched. "I'm glad you like it there," he said.

Tony waited for a minute. "I don't know..." he hesitated. "I don't know if, at some point, I am expected to forgive you." He spoke quietly, but now he looked his father directly in the eye.

Dominic swallowed. "You're not."

Tony frowned.

"I don't expect you to," his father clarified. "I'm not asking you to."

"I don't suppose you can explain why you did what you did?"

Dominic spread his hands wide. "Anthony, as I said to you at NCIS, I was a drunk. But that wasn't the only reason. I was angry, so angry, and to this day I don't know what I was angry at, or why. I felt like I needed to be in control. The one thing I could absolutely control was you. I said it to you before, I was a bastard."

"And now you're not?"

Dominic paused. "I'm not a drunk anymore," he said finally, "although I am still an alcoholic, and always will be. And as for the second part, I don't know. I'm trying not to be, at least where you're concerned."

"It doesn't come naturally to you, then?"

He heard the sarcasm in his son's voice, and for a second his anger flared. He fought it down, but he knew Tony must have seen the flush come to his face. "Like I said," he responded calmly, "I'm trying not to be."

Tony was still for a second, and then looked away. "I shouldn't have said that," he said. "I didn't come here to bait you."

They remained standing in silence, until finally Dominic ventured to ask. "What do you want, Anthony? Is there something you want to say? Is there anything you need from me, that I can give you? Because I will."

I want not be afraid of you anymore, Tony thought.

I want not to feel sick when I am in room with you.

I want not to flinch at the sound of my own name because when I hear it, I hear your voice.

I want to be able to consider the possibility of having children of my own without being afraid that I will do to them what you did to me.

I want not to desperately want people to like me, and then drive them away when they get too close.

I want not to expect to be a failure.

I want to like myself.

But he said "I don't know yet. Maybe. I don't know."

Dominic nodded. "Well, when you do ....."

Tony turned. "I should get to work."

"Are you busy at the moment?" Dominic asked, trying to prolong the contact.

"Yeah, we are. We're investigating a couple of murders on navy bases that we think might be connected. I can't really say any more than that."

"I understand".

Tony paused.

"Anthony," Dominic stepped forward, his arm extended. Then he saw his son's face and dropped it. "Anthony, maybe we should just try to... to be around each other without it being so...."

"Awkward?" Tony suggested. "Awful?"

Dominic's shoulders dropped, but he extended both hands, pleading. "I just thought maybe one day we could be in a room together without you looking like you're going to throw up, and me terrified that I'm going to say something to make you do just that."

Tony looked at him, and waited for a moment before nodding. "Yeah," he conceded, "maybe. That would be ... better."

Dominic sighed. "Perhaps, we could talk about safe topics. Your job, politics, sport ummm..."

Tony's mouth twitched. "Not many, are there?"

His father shook his head, and raised his eyebrows.

Finally, Tony nodded. "Okay, well, next time you're in town, we can try again."

"I'm in DC regularly now. How about same time, next week?"

"It'll depend on work."

"Well, call me and let me know."

"I will."

They both waited, but then Tony turned and left without saying anything further.

When he got to NCIS, he went into the men's room, changed his shirt, and threw up.


	3. Chapter 3

Knowing that Tony was not going to be in late didn't stop Gibbs arrived at the office at his usual hour and being at his desk when Ziva and McGee arrived. Each in turn glanced at Tony's desk, and then at Gibbs, but he said nothing.

At around 8.30am Ziva cracked, and asked "Boss, is Tony going to be in today?"

"Yep," Gibbs responded, without looking up.

A look was exchanged across the bullpen, but Gibbs ignored it.

What was harder to ignore was the anxiety tightening like a vice in his stomach. I should have gone with him, he thought. He didn't give me a chance to say it, but I should have phoned him back. Damn it, why didn't I call him back?

He stood abruptly. McGee and Ziva looked up. By instinct both half rose from their chairs, but sat again when Gibbs muttered "I'm going to see Ducky."

The medical examiner showed no surprise on seeing him. He took one look at the lines creasing Gibbs' forehead and closed the file he had been looking at and stood up. "Anthony?" he asked simply.

"You know?"

"He came and spoke to me a few days ago."

Gibbs sighed in relief. He had suggested that Tony speak to Ducky, hoping that the ME could offer some comfort or insight that Gibbs could not.

"He's seeing him again today."

"Really?"

Gibbs nodded. Then he dropped his head and rubbed a weary hand across his forehead. "I know, Duck."

"You know what?" Ducky seemed genuinely puzzled.

"I should've gone with him."

"Did he ask you to?"

"No."

"Then you shouldn't have." He shook his head and gave Gibbs a small, understanding smile. "Jethro, we have to let him deal with this in his own way." The doctor's voice was gentle, but firm.

"What if his own way is ....?"

"Inadequate?"

"Self destructive."

Ducky paused. "There is a danger of that with Anthony," he conceded. "But when I spoke to him, he seemed reasonably composed." He hesitated for a second, and then continued. "Jethro, it is important Anthony controls this process. You mustn't try to hold his hand, or you will make it impossible for him to do that."

"Well, what if he isn't resolving it, if he starts to fall apart? I'm responsible for this Ducky. Am I meant to stand here and do nothing?" Gibbs could hear his voice becoming increasingly strident.

Ducky stepped up and put a gentle hand on his friend's arm. "Of course not, Jethro. But if what you told me is correct, his father does not mean him any harm. I know," he raised a hand to stop the inevitable interjection, "that he might cause harm without meaning to, but so might you."

Gibbs looked at him, frowning. Ducky continued.

"This is a minefield, my friend, and Anthony has to find his way through it. If you interfere you take away his autonomy, his self respect. Remember, he survived his father as a child, when he had far less resources than has now."

Gibbs sighed and looked away. It wasn't in his nature to do nothing, especially when it was his responsibility to do something. It wasn't just that he had encouraged Tony to talk to his father, although that was enough. It was that Tony was one of his people, one of his team. He was over protective of his people at times, he was controlling, and he knew it. He knew why he was like that too, but it didn't make it any easier to switch it off.

But Ducky was right. Tony was a grown man, and as hard as it was for Gibbs, he had to let Tony handle this himself. Grudgingly, he nodded. "I'll try to keep my nose out of it."

Ducky gave a slight smile, but then his face sobered.

"Don't mistake me, Jethro, we do need to keep a close eye on him. You're right to be worried. Tony is experiencing very high levels of stress, not just from his current contact with his father, but because he's recalling events from his childhood." Ducky's pale blue eyes fixed on Gibbs'. "An abused child obviously experiences fear, but with that fear comes enormous stress. They live with the constant anxiety of keeping a terrible, shameful secret. They believe that if anyone finds out about the abuse there will be terrifying consequences. So they actively conceal it, desperately afraid someone will find out."

Gibbs met his gaze silently. His throat tightened at the thought of any child living in that world. His own childhood, while by no means idyllic, had been reasonably secure and stable, and as for his own daughter – the thought of anyone hurting her as Tony had been hurt made him feel physically ill.

Ducky continued. "Whilst we should not interfere unless he asks us to do so, we should keep a close eye on him over the next few weeks".

"What are we looking for?"

Ducky answered promptly. "Signs of depression, such as insomnia, changes to his diet, loss of energy, inability to concentrate, loss of interest in his usual pursuits. He may isolate himself from others, possibly burying himself in his work. He may be emotionally labile or prone to anger. The stress may also cause him to become hypervigilant, and experience intense physical reactions to events – rapid breathing, accelerated heart rate, sweating. Also, given his family history we should be very alert to the possibility of alcohol use."

Gibbs was silent, the knot of anxiety tightening again in his gut. Tony was going through enough, he thought, he shouldn't have to deal with fighting these demons. If there was only some way he could wrap his hands around this burden and lift it up, take some the weight off Tony. But he couldn't, and that only made it worse.

"And if he shows any symptoms?"

Ducky paused. "We'll assess that when it happens. It's not my area of speciality of course, and I'd never prescribe medication without him seeing a psychiatrist. At present, as a prophylactic, I recommend that you do your best to see that he gets some regular exercise and good food." He paused, and his mouth twitched in a slight smile. "I also recommend that you pay attention to him. Be nice to the boy. Don't go overboard, that would only alarm him". Gibbs gave a rueful smile. "But try not to let Timothy and Ziva be too hard on him. And one last thing, make sure he spends time with Abby. She's good for him, and she'll hug him. He'll like that."

Gibbs shook his head in disbelief. "Simple as that Ducky, exercise, pizza, me not being a bastard and daily hugs from Abby?"

"Well it's a start."

"I only hope it's enough."

******

Tony arrived at the office at around 9.30am, distributing coffee like a ruler bestowing largesse on his subjects. He flirted with Ziva, teased McGee and blessed Gibbs with his best grin. But Gibbs noticed that Tony was wearing his best suit and new shoes, and his anxiety spiked again.

When Tony grabbed a shirt from his drawer and disappeared into the men's room, Gibbs half rose from the chair. Then he remembered Ducky's words. So he waited, and when Tony returned few minutes later and threw his dirty shirt into his bag, Gibbs said nothing.

Tony sat at his desk, whistling and began calling up his files. And the day began.

****

They caught a case that afternoon. A diligent supply clerk at Bethesda had noticed that the hospital's drug inventory had been showing "unusual levels of movement". They checked out the information, and it was clear that drugs were going missing at some point along the supply chain. Inventories had to be checked, statements taken and the links in the chain tested one by one. Not the most glamorous work, but mentally challenging and requiring careful methodology. Ziva hated it; McGee revelled in it. Tony chatted, joked, and worked.

For his part, Gibbs took Ducky's advice and tired to keep a close rein on both his temper and his anxiety. Bu they seemed to feed off each other. When he thought about Tony and his father he could feel his anger rise and his fuse shorten. When it got too bad, he rose and walked away into the corridor or the men's washroom, just to let himself breath, to get control back.

He also kept a close ear on the banter between his agents. To his relief it lacked its usual sharp edge, but not because he had said anything to Ziva or McGee – they just seemed to know that, for a while at least, they had to pull their punches where Tony was concerned.

But as the week wore on Tony's chirpiness became thin, and his smile brittle. Gibbs caught glimpses of some of the symptoms Ducky had listed. Ziva, in her usual style, had crept up on him one day, and Gibbs watched anxiously as Tony gasped and started and stumbled his way through their conversation, his hands shaking as they gripping the edge of his desk. Gibbs could not restrain himself that time; he glared at Ziva as she walked back to her desk, and was pleased to see her drop her eyes and flush a little.

One evening they were working late and ordered takeaway. Gibbs noticed that Tony ate almost nothing, blaming it on the chopsticks, but consuming no more when Gibbs handed him a fork.

Most worrying were moments of absolute silence and stillness, when Tony seemed to be totally absorbed in some invisible object located about 3 feet from his desk. Gibbs once found himself watching Tony watching nothing, counting the seconds, willing his senior agent to snap back, to move, to do something. Finally Tony's eyes flickered and dropped, and Gibbs exhaled a breath he had not realised he was holding. He looked around to find both McGee and Ziva watching him. Tony began talking about a reality show he had seen on television that week, and no-one commented.

The problem, Gibbs recognised, was that Tony was undercover. Undercover as himself. The need to keep his secret was so deeply ingrained that it had become instinct. He needed to present the face that they all expected to see or they would ask questions and questions were dangerous. So as he had done so many times before, he played a part and this time he was playing "Tony before". He was doing a damn good job of it at first, but the pressure of maintaining the facade in front of people who knew him so well was almost impossible, and cracks were becoming more and more frequent.

Gibbs consulted Ducky, but Tony had not spoken to him. The ME did however agree with Gibbs' assessment and encouraged him to take the steps he had recommended, and to do what he could to draw Tony out. Gibbs was relieved. At least now he had something he could do.

In pursuit of the first objective, Gibbs demanded a physical training session that evening after work. All of them, in the gym, sparring and sweating for 90 minutes.

In the locker rooms afterwards Gibbs took a longer than usual to change and pack his bag.

"Wanna grab a pizza, Tony?" he asked quietly, when the others had left.

Tony looked up. He hesitated for a moment, but instinct kicked in. "Tony before" would never have declined pizza with Gibbs. "Sure Boss, " he said and smiled a cheap, thin version of his smile.

It took a while, but by the time Gibbs pushed the last slice towards him Tony was chatting easily and telling a preposterous story about how film from a surveillance job that he did in Baltimore was now on YouTube.

The next step morning Gibbs headed down to the lab to fill the final part of the doctor's prescription. As soon as he came out of the lift he their heard voices; Abby, Ziva and McGee. Pausing in the doorway, he listened.

"Gibbs won't like it," McGee said.

"I don't care if Gibbs likes it!" Ziva snarled. "Gibbs is not doing anything. We have no choice."

"She's right, McGee." Abby's voice was firm. "If Gibbs won't do anything to help Tony, it's up to us."

"What makes you think Tony needs help?"

They all jumped at his voice. It pleased him to see it, but he kept his face stern, glaring at each of them in turn. "Well?" he barked.

"Gibbs," Abby spoke up. It had to be her – they all knew she had the best chance of placating an irate Gibbs. "Bossman, we know that Tony's father came to see him. His name was recorded in the gate register. And now Tony has gone all hinky. He's ... he's overcheerful and fake."

"And he's not eating," McGee chimed in.

"And sometimes, he's quiet." Ziva's observation seemed the most damning.

Gibbs looked at her. She returned his gaze evenly, and after a second, her chin lifted. She would not back down, not this one. In the midst of his irritation, he felt a warm glow of respect for her. Tony had a good partner. That mattered.

He looked at Abby and McGee. They stared straight back at him, eyes firm. He saw their genuine concern, and their determination, and it touched him that they cared too.

"I know," he said softly.

They exchanged glances, and then again, as one, looked at him. Abby had her hands on her hips and was trying to glare, but Gibbs could see tears welling in her eyes.

"Well, what are you doing about it?"she demanded, her voice breaking slightly.

So they too knew that it was his responsibility. He felt again the chafing of his inactivity, but at least he could offer some defence.

"What am I doing, Abs? I'm doing exactly what the doctor ordered."

"Well it's not enough."

He drew a slow breath. Anger, in the face of their concern, would not help.

"That's why I'm here Abs," he continued calmly. "You're the last item Ducky recommended."

"Me?" she asked, eyes wide.

"You," he confirmed. "Ducky recommended Tony comes down to the lab daily and spends time with you."

"Ohw," Abby breathed out a long sigh, and blinked rapidly. "Ducky prescribed me?"

Gibbs nodded, and a corner of his mouth twitched. "He suggested hugs."

Another soft exhalation of surprise. "I'm medicinal?"

"Not exactly the word I would have chosen." Tony's voice cut through the assembled group like a knife. Gibbs' control prevented him jumping guiltily like the others, but he winced and turned slowly to face his senior agent.

Tony was leaning in the doorway, a CaffPow in his hands. A slight, sardonic, smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "I'm guessing that this campfire is about me." His voice was cold.

None of them tried to deny it. A muscle twitched in Tony's jaw, and his eyes flicked over each of them quickly. With a shock, Gibbs realised what he was seeing. He's afraid, he thought, with a pang, he's afraid of us. How did I let that happen?

"Tony," Ziva began, her brown eyes warm with sympathy, "we are worried about you. We want to help."

Tony straightened up and moved slowly into the lab. As he neared them, Abby launched herself at him and wrapped her arms around his neck. He staggered for a moment under the assault, but managed to deposit the CaffPow safely on the counter and put his arms loosely around her. Abby didn't let go, and after a few seconds Tony's arms tightened around her. His shoulders relaxed and he closed his eyes and buried his face in the crook of her neck. Gibbs sighed in relief – the doctor's prescription, whilst unconventional, was clearly the right one.

Finally, Tony raised his head and released Abby. She stepped back, and he gave them a real, if slightly abashed, smile. "I appreciate the thought guys, but I'm fine."

Fine, Gibbs thought, with Tony it was always "fine". "You'll train with me twice a week DiNozzo, and then we have dinner. Anyone else is welcome to join us. You get down here at least once a day. And you see Ducky."

Tony dropped his head, and lifted his eyes to Gibbs. The big-eyed puppy face that had worked for him in the past, but never with Gibbs and this time would be no different. He sighed. "Boss, really, I'm......"

"Fine," they chorused.

"Tony," Gibbs said softly, stepping up to him and resting a hand on his arm. "You're not fine. You're under an incredible amount of stress. It's in your interests and the interests of everyone in this room for you to do what Ducky says." That's right, Gibbs thought, make it about the team, about the job. Not about this awful burden that I've put on your shoulders, not about the anxiety twisting in my gut.

Tony was silent, his eyes fixed on his feet. Finally he looked up, and his eyes flicked from Abby to Ziva, then McGee and finally back to Gibbs. He held his gaze for a long moment. And all he saw was understanding and concern. No judgement, no censure, no pity. He realised that it wasn't a secret any longer. They knew, and they hadn't rejected him. They knew, and they stood here with him, offering to help. They knew, and he wasn't alone.

He gave a quiet smile and nodded.

"Good," Gibbs confirmed sternly. "Now back to work, all of you."


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

"Goddamit!" Tony slammed his phone down on the counter.

Ziva wearily raised her head, blood still spattered on her face.

"Tony?" she asked softly.

"Three hours," he said bleakly. "It will take at least three hours to get a plane here."

It was too long. They both knew it. Three hours, plus an hour flying time to Bethesda was too long. Gibbs did not have that much life left in him.

They needed a plane. They needed it within the hour. And he couldn't get one.

Tony could not begin to fathom how it had gone so wrong, how they had ended up here in a backwoods medical clinic with one doctor and Gibbs bleeding out in the room next door, while he frantically phoned the director, the Secretary of the Navy, the FBI, begging for a plane.

The Navy's emergency flight was dealing with an severe e-coli outbreak that was raging through the USS Ronald Reagan and the closest flight, if diverted immediately, would not reach them for three hours. Fornell had tried his best, but he could not get authorisation to direct the FBI plane to their location.

By road, it would take eight hours, half of it on bumpy country roads.

Tony pressed his hands into his face. He needed to think. This was insane. Gibbs was not going to die because he couldn't get a plane. There had to be a way. There was always a way. What would Gibbs do? What would Gibbs do, Tony thought bleakly, if he wasn't dying? A hand tightened around his throat, squeezing inexorably, choking the life out of him as surely as the passing minutes were draining it out of his boss.

He forced down the panic, picked up the phone, and tried to think.

Ziva watched him. She saw his clenched hands and the muscle pulsing in his jaw. She could feel him vibrating, waves of tension buffeting her where she sat. But he wasn't going under. She wouldn't either. She closed her eyes, her mind lunging from one thought to another, trying to find something she could do, some help she could give, some way she could change this, but every idea or possibility disappeared like smoke when she clutched at it.

She opened her eyes and tipped her head back against the wall. Tony was standing a few feet away, staring down at the phone in his hand, utterly still. She looked at him. He did not move. Suddenly she realised she was holding her breath.

"Tony?"

He turned and walked past her, out into the glare of the afternoon sun, and she saw him lift the phone to his ear.

In a few minutes he was back.

"Get him ready, and get McGee," he barked.

She rose, frowning.

"A plane is landing at the local airfield in 30 minutes. Tell the doctor. He's coming with us."

She exploded from her chair and threw open the door to the small consulting room, where Gibbs lay on the only examination couch, the doctor at his side, a drip containing plasma suspended above him. McGee sat slouched in a chair in the corner, his left shoulder bound and arm supported by a sling.

"Doctor Wha."

He looked up immediately on hearing Ziva's voice.

"We have a plane."

*****

The airstrip was just that - a strip, with a galvanised iron shed to one side. They transported Gibbs there in the back of the doctor's pickup so they could keep him lying flat and to minimise the amount of bouncing.

Now they waited.

Ziva looked at Tony. He had said very little in the last half hour. He stood silently watching from behind his sunglasses as a speck in the sky became a dot and then a plane. There was a curious tension about him, but not the explosive anger and frustration that she had seen earlier. More like a fidgety disquiet. She would almost have said he was nervous.

She moved to stand at his side. "How did you do it?" she asked quietly.

"Do what?"

"Get us a plane?"

He paused. "Stand back and keep Gibbs covered. This might get dusty."

Evasion, she thought, was always Tony's way of dealing with questions he did not want to answer. She thought about pressing the issue but she was tired and the mixed smells of gunfire and Gibbs' blood were still in her nostrils. If she pressed now she was likely to go too hard, and there was too much brittleness in him for her to do that.

So she watched as the sleek white plane descended, the roar of its engines growing until its wheel met the dusty strip. She ducked her head and turned her face against the grit it threw into the air.

"C'mon!" she heard Tony shout, "Let's get him aboard."

Dr Wha and McGee, using his one good arm, were slowly sliding the stretcher off the back of the truck, and she moved quickly to lower the wheels beneath it. One at each corner, they rolled him towards the opened door and lowered steps of the plane as the roar of its engines continued unabated.

On reaching the stairs they folded the wheels again and each lifted a corner of the stretcher. With Tony and Ziva at the head and McGee and the doctor at the foot, they carefully carried their boss up the stairs, the doctor and McGee struggling with the increased weight as they ascended. Ziva and Tony carefully directed the head of the stretcher through the door, and as she moved backwards into the plane Ziva was surprised by long arms reaching over her shoulder and taking hold of the drip with its precious cargo of plasma.

"I've got it," she heard a deep voice say. "Just keep coming back."

They did, and McGee and the doctor finally appeared, jostling at the foot of the stretcher. McGee's face was grey and beaded with sweat, but he kept level the corner he was holding. As the others carefully rolled the lowered stretcher to a safe position within the plane, Ziva took McGee's arm and eased him into the closest seat.

"Sit Tim," she said gently, "before you fall down."

He nodded, rested his head on the seat back and closed his eyes.

"Gibbs?" he asked after a moment.

She looked over her shoulder and saw Tony and Dr Wha bent over him. The doctor looked up and gave her a quick nod. "No harm done," he said shortly. "Let's get him to Bethesda."

"An ambulance and our ME will meet us at the airport and Bethesda is standing by," Tony informed him curtly. Then he looked back over his shoulder, glancing at McGee.

"Probie?"

"I'm okay Tony," the junior agent answered weakly. "Just need to rest."

Tony's eyes narrowed.

"Ziva, see to the door," he ordered.

As she did, she became aware again of the other pair of hands helping her. She turned to see an older man dressed in a dark suit. He expertly locked the door and then turned away again to face Tony.

"Ready?" he asked.

Tony nodded. "Everyone take a seat," he ordered. After checking the brakes on the stretcher, he took the seat closest to it and leaned forward so one hand remained in contact with its metal rail.

Ziva and the Doctor quickly buckled themselves in, and she heard the order for take-off. The plane immediately turned and began to accelerate. She looked across the aisle, and had her first good look at the man. Mid 60s, tall, good looking, expensive dark suit. His own plane? she thought. Not FBI, she knew that. CIA? FIMA? Her brain was trying to make connections, but it was all happening too fast.

Within a minute they had levelled off. As soon as the seat belt sign went off the doctor was out of his seat and back at Gibbs' side. Tony finally released his grip on the railing, unbuckled his belt and slowly stood. Ziva and the man rose as one, and Ziva glanced at the stranger.

Tony turned, and she raised her eyebrows. He sighed, and looked away. Putting his hands on his hips, he blew out a slow breath. Then he turned back to face her and swallowed.

"Mossad Officer Ziva David," he said stiffly, "NCIS Agent Timothy McGee, Dr Nicholas Wha," he indicated the others present, "meet my father, Dominic DiNozzo."

*****

Ziva tried not to eavesdrop, but it was a small plane. The hushed voices of the two men were clearly audible to her.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"So that's not your blood then." Now the tone carried a slightly sardonic tone, but there was something else present too.

There was a pause.

"No, it Gibbs's." Tony's voice was defiant.

Another pause and the sound of a cupboard opening and closing.

"Here, I think we're about the same size."

She heard rustling, and when Tony spoke again, his voice was even lower.

"I can't... I can't talk to you right now."

She started and her hands clenched on the armrests. He sounded somehow smaller, and so tense, as though he was about to snap.

"That's okay, I understand." The answer was calm, almost soothing. "You need to see to Agent Gibbs." Ziva relaxed and exhaled.

Tony came back up the aisle, and Ziva noted that he was wearing a clean white shirt.

"How long till we land?" Doctor Wha asked.

Tony looked back over his shoulder at his father, who pressed a button in the armrest of one of the seats and relayed the question to the pilot.

Forty minutes, was the answer.

"Paul," Dominic addressed the pilot, "if there are any hold ups, or if they want you to delay landing, let me know immediately." He took his finger off the switch without waiting for a reply.

Ziva looked at him more closely. The resemblance to Tony was unmistakeable now and she wondered how she had made the connection before. DiNozzo Senior had same long legs and broad shoulders as his son, and the same elegant way of moving. But his eyes looked older than his years, she thought. She recalled a line from one of Tony's favourite movies – it's not the years, it's the mileage.

Dominic caught her looking and gave a small smile. She held his gaze, not trying to hide that she was appraising him. His smile widened. He had a slightly predatory but utterly charming smile. Like Tony, she thought, and felt her cheeks flush.

"Is there anything I can get you Officer David?" he asked, pronouncing her name correctly.

"No thank you," she responded instinctively. Then she reconsidered. "Actually, do you have anything to drink?"

Dominic's smile disappeared, and his eyes flicked to Tony. "I don't keep alcohol on the plane."

"No, I'm sorry," Ziva corrected, "I just meant mineral water or a soft drink."

He nodded and moved towards the back of the plane. When he returned, he carried a selection of bottles of water and soft drink. He gave one to Ziva, and held one out to McGee, but he did not stir.

"Out cold," Ziva stated flatly. "Painkillers."

Dominic turned and approached his son. "Anthony?" he asked.

Tony looked up from his seat near Gibbs. He hesitated before taking the proffered soft drink. Another was handed to Dr Wha, who took it with a murmur of thanks, his attention hardly leaving his patient.

So this was him, Ziva thought, Tony's father. She could still see the tension in her partner, a guarded awkwardness in the slight frown on his brow and the way his eyes flicked around the cabin, as if trying to look over his shoulder. This is not just because of Gibbs, she thought.

She knew enough about both Tony's childhood and their recent reconnection to make an educated guess as to the relationship between father and son. Also, she knew what was like to be intimidated by your own father. But she had never feared her father and he had never given her cause to fear him. Her childhood home had been witness to his silences, his secrets and his grief, but never to violence. The only time her father had ever raised a hand to her was to run it soothingly through her hair, to comfort her, to help her sleep. Her mind could not even form a picture of him striking her.

"Ziva," Tony's voice jarred her out of her reverie. She looked at him. He had turned in his seat and was watching her with eyes hooded and wary. She schooled her feature into blankness.

He continued. "We need to work out what happened back there. Gibbs will want to know as soon as he wakes up."

So there was no question now. There was no doubt in his voice. Gibbs would wake up. She let his certainty comfort her.

Reaching for her backpack she pulled out a notepad and her mission notes.

******

Dominic DiNozzo listened quietly as Tony and Ziva ran through their recollections of the events of the morning, trying to work out where the operation had gone so badly off the trials. The team had been on a fact finding mission, trying to learn more about a young sailor found murdered at his base. They had spoken to people who knew him and that morning had gone to search a cabin he owned. None of the people interviewed were suspects, and none had caused the investigators to be concerned. But none of them should have known the NCIS team was heading out to the remote cabin in search of evidence linking the dead sailor to a highly profitable and extremely violent heroin ring.

Dominic tried to keep his head down, reading a report he already knew by heart, but he found himself listening the conversation between his son and Officer David. He had not had an opportunity before to listen to Anthony's speaking to someone else. The voice sounded different, and Dominic realised for the first time how deeply strained his son sounded when speaking to him. But he was impressed to hear Anthony take charge of the discussion. Young McGee awoke and he too offered opinions, but both he and Ziva deferred to Tony. It was clear that they accepted that Tony had the ability and the experience to discern what information was important, what theories were plausible, and what further steps they now needed to take. There was a strength and confidence in him that his father had neither experienced not expected.

Dominic's eyes drifted up from the page to look at his son's face. He saw flashes of his first wife in that face, in the mobility of his mouth with its delicate bow in the centre of the top lip. What does he look like when he is smiling? he wondered, and his chest constricted as he realised that he did not know what his son's smile looked like. When had he ever given him reason to smile? he thought bitterly. A taste like stale whisky rose into his throat and in that instant he wanted a drink as much as he ever had in his life.

He shook the thought from his head and took a swig from the bottle of water around which his hand was clenched. He glanced out the window momentarily and when his eyes came back into the cabin Tony was looking at him. He had his mother's eyes too – clear, pale green with dark lashes. There was no anger in the gaze, just appraisal. Dominic returned the look and after a moment found himself drinking in the sight of his son's face, warmer than whisky, cooler than water. His heart thudded. Tony looked away first.

Dominic realised with shock that he loved his son.


	5. Chapter 5

This is the last chapter. The story was only intended to be a one-shot, but it somehow grew. Thank you to all my reviewers and those who have put this story in the favourites. Please feel free to comment on this last chapter and let me know if what you think.

And if I feel like it, Tony's father may well pop in the occasional one-shot in the future!

***********

**CHAPTER FIVE**

Gibbs became aware of voices, muffled but annoying. He wanted them to go away, but they were insistent. They kept saying his name.

Then he heard one voice that he recognised.

"Jethro? Jethro, can you hear me?"

It was Ducky. Gibbs tried to open his eyes but the lids were lead. Was he was drugged? he thought weakly.

"That's it Jethro, I know you can hear me."

The weight on his eyelids lessened slightly and he was able to slowly open them. At first all he saw were fuzzy, blurred images and whiteness. He blinked and this time his lids opened more readily. The images coalesced and he saw Ducky looking down at him. The doctor's mouth smiled but his eyes frowned.

"Don't try to speak, just squeeze my hand if you can hear me," he directed.

Gibbs realised that Ducky's hand was loosely intertwined with his. Slowly, he managed to tighten his grip.

"Good," the doctor praised, his frown lightening a little. "You've been intubated, but we're going to remove it now. You remember what that means?"

Gibbs did, and it was no more pleasant this time than it had been the last. When the tube was out Ducky held a straw to his lips and allowed him a sip of water before moving it away.

"What...?" he rasped.

"You were shot," Ducky answered, knowing the question already.

Gibbs' chest constricted. His team, he thought, what...?

"No-one else was hurt." Again Ducky anticipated. "Well, Timothy dislocated his shoulder, but that's been taken care of and is on the mend. Tony and Ziva are unharmed."

Gibbs became aware that the doctor's fingers had moved and he was surreptitiously taking Gibbs' pulse.

"But you gave us quite a scare," he continued smoothly. "You were bleeding out, but they managed to get you to Bethesda in time to operate. You won't be leaving here in a hurry I'm afraid."

Gibbs moved his hand, trying to dislodge the doctor's grip. Ducky smiled a little and let him go, gently patting the hand as he did so. Gibbs felt his eyes close, powerless to stop himself sliding way.

"Yes," the doctor said softly, "you were very lucky my friend, very lucky indeed."

The next time Gibbs woke it was both quicker and more complete but still Ducky was there. The doctor rose from a chair and moved to the side of the bed as he saw his friend's eyes open.

"Don't try to move," he cautioned, reaching out again for the water glass.

Gibbs took a sip of water and the doctor's advice.

"Where's Tony?" he asked.

"He's checking on McGee."

"I need to know what happened."

Ducky looked over quickly towards the door. "I don't know about the mission, but there is one thing you should know," he said softly. Gibbs eyes widened. His team were safe, weren't they?

"Tell me," he demanded.

"You had to be flown here." The doctor rested a hand on Gibbs' shoulder. "No Navy flights were available, so you were flown here in Tony's father's plane."

"What?" Gibbs started, but Ducky gently pressed him back onto the bed.

"I haven't got the full story from Ziva, but..."

The door swung open and Gibbs looked over to see Tony enter the room.

The younger agent glared at the ME. "Why didn't you tell me he was awake?"

"He only just woke, Anthony," Ducky soothed. "And he's very weak."

"Am not," Gibbs protested, but his voice was embarrassingly thin.

Tony moved to stand beside Ducky. He looked his boss up and down, his eyes settling on his face. "You look a heck of a lot better than you did 24 hours ago, Boss," Tony said with a smile, "but you still look like crap."

Gibbs tried to snort, but all that came out was a feeble puff of air. "How's McGee?"

"He's fine, a bit sore, but that's why God made Vicodin."

Gibbs looked at his senior agent, trying to focus on his face, but Tony looked away.

"Tony," Gibbs spoke as firmly as he could.

"I'll go and check on Timothy," Ducky offered tactfully. "And I'll be back to see you later Jethro." And he was gone.

Tony looked at the closed door.

"Tony," Gibbs pressed quietly, "sit down."

But Tony continued standing and looked at the floor. He crossed his arms and one finger tapped convulsively on the other arm.

"Please," Gibbs said softly.

At the rare entreaty Tony stilled and looked Gibbs in the face. He drew a chair to the side of the bed and sat down.

"How did I get here?" Gibbs asked quietly.

Tony looked away, and rubbed his hand along his thigh. Gibbs waited. Tony leant forward and crossed his hands on top of the bed cover.

"I could say something about your mother and father loving each other very much..." He tried for a smile but it faltered and Gibbs' heart constricted.

"I , umm..." Tony finally looked back at him, and swallowed. "We needed a plane. Navy flight would have taken too long. I called ...," he hesitated over the correct nomenclature, "him, and he was in the air on route to Washington. He was able to come and pick us up fast. That's all."

That's all. That's all, Gibbs thought. Tony had phoned his father and asked for help. What had that cost him? How had he found the strength, the words?

Tony's eyes met Gibbs', and Tony gave a slight, almost apologetic smile. "You were dying Boss," he said softly.

Somehow Gibbs' hand found Tony's on the bed, and he squeezed it weakly. "Thank you," he rasped.

"Ahh, Boss..." Tony shook his head.

"Mean it, Tony. Can't have been easy for you."

Tony's eyes widened a little in surprise.

Gibbs squeezed again. "I know Tony," he stressed, enunciating each word carefully, "that it can't have been easy for you." He was determined to get this said and he wasn't going to let Tony brush him off.

"Making that call, asking your father for his help, that was hard. But you did it. That took real strength, Tony, real guts. I'm proud of you."

Tony sat perfectly still, his eyes fixed on Gibbs. Neither man blinked. Then Tony squeezed Gibbs hand in return and his expression melted into a slow, genuine slightly abashed smile. The first such smile, Gibbs realised, that he had seen in weeks.

"Thanks Boss."

Gibbs released his hand. "I need to thank your father too. Think you could call him for me?"

Tony nodded and rose from the chair. "There's someone else you need to thank though," he said. He opened the door and Gibbs heard him to call out a name.

Another man entered the room. He was about a foot shorter than Tony, a slender, youthful looking Asian man.

"Boss, this is Doctor Nicholas Wha. He kept you alive."

The doctor he rolled his eyes at the agent's words. "You kept yourself alive, Special Agent Gibbs," he said with a smile, "I just helped".

******

Tony slowly pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Barely conscious of the noise of the hospital around him, he replayed Gibbs' words in his head and felt them warm him. Gibbs thought he was strong, that he had guts. Gibbs was proud of him. Tony smiled as he heard the words again, and then smiled at himself for smiling. It was ridiculous, he thought, ridiculous and childish that Gibbs' words made him feel like this. But they did.

Burning inside him like a small fire was the knowledge, the absolute certainty, that whatever had happened in his past and whatever happened in the future, today he had Gibbs' respect. He could hold it tight to him, or he could carry it in front of him like a shield. It would lighten his burdens, stiffen his spine and square his shoulders. He had it, no-one could take it away from him, and he would make damned sure he didn't lose it.

He dialled his father's number.

*****

Dominic DiNozzo hesitated outside the door to Gibbs' room and smoothed down the front of his suit coat and enjoyed the feel of soft Italian wool and cashmere under his hand.

He didn't know if Anthony would be in there. In the flurry of doctors and sirens that greeted their arrival at the airport he hadn't had a chance to speak to him and, not wanting to intrude, he had not accompanied them to the hospital. Now he stood here, wondering if his son was two feet away, knowing that there was something he wanted to tell him but having no idea how to do it.

Finally, he raised his hand and knocked on the door.

The door was opened immediately by a tall, black haired girl – no, he corrected, woman; it was the pigtails that had thrown him – with a spider web tattoo on her neck. He started a little, but did not step back.

He heard a rough voice speak. "Come on in." Looking to the bed he saw Gibbs, pale and weak, but with a small smile on his lips, and another man by his side wearing a similar smile. Dominic's reaction must have been more obvious than he thought.

The girl – woman – glared at him, but stepped back to allow him to enter.

"Agent Gibbs," he said in greeting. Then he turned. "And you must be Ms Abigail Scuito." He pronounced her name with an Italian flourish.

Now it was her turn to look surprise.

"Anthony's description of you was very .... vivid," he explained with a slight curve of his lips. "He must enjoy looking at you."

Her eyes widened, and his smile reached his eyes. She started to smile in return, but then stopped herself and tried to summon another frown. This only made Dominic smile more widely. Which made her soften again. And then frown.

Gibbs chuckled. It was like watching a tennis match in Abby's head. Dominic looked very like Tony when he smiled and however much Abby might want to hate him for his past actions, that smile triggered an almost Pavlovian response in her.

Dominic turned to look at Gibbs and raised his eyebrows, but before he could speak the other occupant of the room stepped forward and extended his hand.

"Doctor Donald Mallard," he said. "Call me Ducky."

"Ducky," Dominic acknowledged, and they shook hands. "Anthony has told me about you also."

"With slightly few adjectives, I'd imagine."

Dominic smiled in confirmation.

The doctor moved to stand beside Abby. "Come my dear, we should be leaving."

"Umm, no I..." Abby stalled.

"Now, Abigail," he insisted, taking her arm and opening the door.

"Gibbs..." she pleaded.

He mouthed the word go, and that was enough to make her acquiesce.

After they had left, Dominic turned to look at Gibbs. "Well, you look better than you did last time I saw you," he commented.

"But apparently I still look like crap." Gibbs tried to gesture to the chair but his arm barely moved. "Please, sit."

Dominic did, casually unbuttoning his suit coat and smoothing the material in what was to Gibbs a very familiar action.

"I wanted to thank you," Gibbs began, but he was cut off.

"There is no need to thank me, Agent Gibbs."

"There is a need. I would have died."

Dinozzo gave an eloquent Italian shrug. "Possibly," he conceded, "but I didn't do it for you."

"Why did you do it?" Gibbs demanded.

"Because he asked." The response was immediate and honest.

Gibbs paused. Then the corner of his mouth twitched. "Good answer," he commented softly. "How are things going?"

Dominic hesitated. He had no idea how things were going. They were still barely speaking. "We've met four times since that first meeting at NCIS," he said slowly. "On the last occasion Anthony was able to sit, rather than stand. I'm hoping that next time he may feel sufficiently relaxed to lean back in the chair. Sharing a hot beverage is, I fear, still some time away."

Gibbs looked at him and saw his disappointment. "Give him time," he counselled. "This wouldn't be easy for anyone. And Tony doesn't open up to people easily – he'll be walking on eggs with you. Getting angry won't help. I know - I've tried."

Dominic shook his head. "I'm not angry with him. I just never appreciated how... how bad it was." He sighed heavily. "I am not a patient man, Agent Gibbs. And I'm not accustomed to letting someone else run the show. Normally, I control the people around me – that's how I like it."

"So does he." Gibbs tone was affectionate, rather than critical. While Tony would generally follow orders, he always managed to put his own spin on how he did so. He remembered Tony's first weeks on the team, when he tried to get the younger agent to adopt a more conservative, structured approach. He soon learned that as well as being futile, it was counterproductive. Tony had to be allowed to be Tony. That was how he worked best, and that was how Gibbs liked him best.

Dominic looked back at the man in the bed, and recalled their previous meeting when Gibbs had stood silent and solid against the door to the interview room, his presence holding Tony in the room and his silence giving Dominic the space he needed to speak. Every time they spoken since that day Anthony had managed to mention Gibbs, as if his name was a talisman, a reminder of what he had and who he was. This man was important to his son, more important than he was or could ever be and Dominic felt a flash of envy. And then he remembered.

He drew a breath, and took a risk. "I know what happened to your family," he said softly. "I'm sorry."

Gibbs looked at him in surprise.

"I researched you," he said unapologetically. "Or to be more accurate, I paid someone else to research you." He looked Gibbs square in the face. "It must seem terribly unfair to you."

"Unfair?" Gibbs frowned.

"You were a good father, but you lost your child. I was a terrible father, but somehow mine survived. How is that fair?" The bitterness was back. "I don't deserve to have a son. I don't deserve him. But you do."

"He's not my son."

"He wishes he was."

"Do you wish he was?"

"No." Again, the answer was immediate and utterly honest.

Gibbs paused. "Another good answer," he said softly.

Dominic sighed, and shook his head.

"You're right, it isn't fair," Gibbs acknowledged, and Dominic looked up in surprise. "But I have my agent, and a friend. And you have a chance to have a son. It won't be easy – nothing worth doing ever is. But he's worth it." He moved slightly, trying to ease the ache in his back from the hard hospital mattress.

"He doesn't trust me."

"No, he doesn't," Gibbs confirmed.

"I can't blame him. I suppose the best I can hope is that one day he'll stop hating me."

"He doesn't hate you. Not now. If he did, he would never have made that first phone call."

Dominic considered this, and conceded the point with a tilt of his head. "I wonder if it is too much to hope..." he paused, "that one day Anthony and I might also be friends?"

Gibbs weighed his answer. "You'll have to wait and see." Then he smiled a little. "You may not like him. Abby says that Tony is an acquired taste."

Dominic smiled wryly. "Or he may not like me, plenty of people don't. But I don't think me not liking him will be a problem." He remembered his son's face as it had looked on the plane, the slight frown, the seriousness, the strength. And the blood splattered on his shirt.

Gibbs saw a gentle emotion move across Dominic's face and he recognised it. A longing rose inside him, and envy.

"You'll get there," he said gruffly. Then he raised himself a little from the pillow, and looked hard at the man opposite him. When he spoke his voice was deadly serious. "There is one thing I want you to remember. I said it to you when we first met, and I'm saying it again. If you hurt him again, I will kill you."

There was silence.

"You won't have to," Dominic promised.

******

Tony had finally completed the mountain of paperwork that the hospital demanded as a result of their unorthodox arrival. Now he wanted to see Gibbs again before going back to the office to check on Ziva and McGee's progress with their inquiries.

As he came out of the lift he saw the door to Gibbs' room open and his father stepped out. Without thinking, Tony pulled his suit coat closed and did up the centre button.

They approached each other and in unison turned into the waiting area.

"Anthony," Dominic said smoothly.

"How is he?"

Dominic paused. He had noticed before that Tony never addressed him name or by any title.

"In pain, and he seems a little weak. I thought he needed to rest."

Tony glanced over at the door to the room.

"And Anthony," his father continued, "if it is easier, you should just call me Dominic."

Tony looked back at his father and gave a short nod. He didn't know if he could say it, not yet. He would go home and practice saying it into the mirror a few times, to see how his face looked and to get used to the sound of it in his ears. But it would be easier than calling him .... anything else.

He swallowed. He knew Gibbs would already have said it, but he had to say it as well. "Umm, listen..." he looked at the door and thought again of Gibbs' words. "Thank you," he said quickly. He looked back at Dominic, and this time he held his gaze. "Thank you for bringing us here." He realised with surprise that they were standing closer than they usually did, but he felt no anxiety and no need to move away.

"I'm glad I could help."

"I suppose we're even then".

Dominic started and frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"You don't owe me anything now," Tony looked back at the door. "Paid in full, and all that."

Dominic shook his head. "Is that what you think Anthony, that I did this to pay a debt?" His voice was growing louder, and Tony flinched. "I'm sorry," Dominic amended immediately. "Anthony, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout, but you can't really think that's why I did it."

Tony was silent. He didn't know what to think. He didn't know what he wanted to think. If his father had done this to pay a debt then that would have ended things between them. They could both walk away and forget. He had what he wanted – Gibbs and his life – and his father had what he wanted – absolution.

"But you're off the hook," Tony offered, his eyes finding a scuff mark on the linoleum some distance away. "It's done, really." He looked up, and gave his father a smile. It was a good one, he thought. It would have fooled most people, certainly anyone who did not know him well.

Dominic paused, and looked closely at his son. "Bullshit," he said tersely. "It's not done. It's nowhere near done." He drew a deep breath and blew it out slowly, shaking his head. "Anthony, listen to me. Gibbs asked me why I loaned you the plane, and I said it was because you asked. And that's true. That's all it was. You asked, and I could." He was almost pleading now. "It wasn't meant to be a trade."

Tony looked back at his father, weighing his words, looking for evidence of his lies or insincerity.

His father continued. "I can't make up for what I did to you. I'm not trying to do that." He reached out and almost touched Tony's arm, but dropped his hand. "I'm trying .....". He paused.

"What are you trying to do?"

"I'm trying to get to know my son," Dominic shot back. "For god's sake Anthony, I am trying to have some sort of relationship with you, I'm trying to show you that I care about you, that I love you..."

Tony stepped back his, eyes wide. Dominic looked away and buttoned his suit coat. That wasn't how he had planned to say it. He'd screwed it up. He rubbed a hand across his forehead and was suprised to find it shaking.

For a second, Tony couldn't breathe. A bolt of anger went through him – what was his father thinking, saying that? Why would he say it? How could he expect..... ? Then he sagged. It was all too much. Too much had happened in the last 48 hours and he couldn't make sense of it now. First Gibbs was proud of him, now his father loved him. He did not know how much more of this he could take.

He took a few steps away and sank down onto one of the plastic seats.

Dominic sighed heavily. He felt that he should say something. It was his fault - he'd promised himself that he would not screw it up, that he'd watch what he said, and he'd failed. Again.

"I'm sorry Anthony, I didn't mean to say it like that."

"Did you mean to say it at all?"

Dominic looked at him in surprise. Tony didn't sound angry, he just sounded... curious.

"Yes," he replied softly. "I did mean to say it. Just not yet, and not like that. Look, you're tired and busy ...."

"Yeah, I am." Tony rose slowly to his feet. "And I can't think about this right now. I need to check on Gibbs and I need get back to NCIS."

Dominic nodded. Tony walked past him, and then stopped. Slowly he turned and stepped back.

"So you just did it," he asked haltingly, "because...?"

"Because my son asked."

Tony paused. He stood motionless for a while, then squared his shoulders and turned to face his father.

"I should still say "thank you"" he insisted softly. "Thank you....Dominic." Very slowly he extended his hand. As his hand neared his father he felt a rising panic, a slow choking fear, but he kept his head up and looked his father straight in the face. To his relief, his hand wasn't shaking.

Just as slowly, Dominic reached out and carefully grasped his son's hand. It was warm and slightly damp but the grip was firm and the shape oddly familiar. He gave a quick squeeze and shook it twice as his father had taught him to do when he was a boy, as he had taught his son.

"My pleasure, Anthony," he said softly. He did not want to let go, but he did, his hand tingling from the contact.

For a moment the two men looked at each other. Dominic no longer saw his guilt and his weakness, his shame personified. Instead he saw a young man of fine qualities and good humour, respected, talented and liked. A man he was proud to know, and who he wanted to know better. And Tony no longer saw a nightmare, a clenched fist or open hand. Instead he saw a flawed but a proud man, struggling to do his best to right a wrong. A man he felt he could understand. For each of them, looking was no longer an ordeal or a struggle; it was simply looking.

Dominic gave a small smile. So did Tony. Now, maybe, they had a chance.


End file.
